You all know the story of Superman, right? Poor, unpopular Clark Kent gets his super powers, saves the world, and suddenly becomes the most popular person on it. Hero faces challenge, hero overcomes challenge; roll credits, cue applause. But what if the hero can't overcome? Art mirrors life, but sometimes the truth is so terrible that it gets locked up; buried. Simply because no one can stand to look at it. Who wants to read a story where the hero falls flat on his face?

The sun beat down heavily on a tired and weary third period gym class. Coach McCormick stood before them, irritatingly unaffected by the heat and still talking.
"Good morning boys and girls. Now, I know how very eager you are to start today's activity and enjoy this beautiful day so let's get right down to it. Today you will be playing soccer. This will be boys against boys and girls against girls so if you would please separate girls on the left side and guys on the right and we can get started." In every way, his speech pattern was reminiscent of a cattle auctioneer.
Clark slid off his perch on the wall and strode over, "But where do we put you coach?"
Teachers generally didn't like it when Clark talked, because as a rule he only spoke to harass the teachers. And people who he felt particularly deserved it.
"Ok jackass, just get on the field."
A few people smirked at Clark, but as a general rule of thumb, they all filed past him apprehensively, as if they thought making any sudden moves would spook him. The coach counted them off in twos, and once the teams were all on their opposite sides of their field, blew the whistle with malicious anticipation.
"Let's play ball!" He decreed.
Shockingly, of the 16 boys in gym class and the 55 minute period, not a single one felt the urge to pass him the ball. And so he waited. There were 1,907 bricks in that wall over there, 16 trees circling the field, 7 rows of bleachers. Seemingly an eternity later, the coach finally sounded the call to go inside, and for someone to grab the soccer balls and put them by the door to his office. The girls stopped playing immediately, tugging at their sweaty undershirts and whining. Guys gravitated towards them like a cat to the sound of a can opener and eventually only three were left, including the coach. The other two were Brian Davis- Wagner: smart, good- looking and beyond all reproach. Hardly worth mentioning, or so everyone says, was Clarke.
Clark Kent was an unusual boy; a loner by all accounts, but it was a mutual choice. He didn't want anything to do with the world, and the world didn't want anything to do with him. Maybe it was the way he walked, sauntering with a quiet contempt, or the way he seemed to move noiselessly. Perhaps it was the particular little snarl he got when anyone dared approach him, or the way his face was arranged that more or less exactly failed to please the eye. Whatever it was, it left him alone, alone and bitter He sat precisely in the center of the field eating his lunch, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and orange, and fell asleep at 12:00 every day. No one knew what he was thinking, if he was adverse to change. At the very least, he didn't seem to be having a hard time ignoring it. Unfortunately, there are some poor souls who will never know the comfort of routine or the stability of a normal life. Even more unfortunately, Clark happened to be one of them.
Coach patted Brian warmly on the back, declaring, "Good job son."
"Yeah," Brian replied, "It was pretty rough. But I managed to pull my team through. Even though one player, I won't name names, refused to participate."
"You wouldn't," cue pause for a pretentious smack of the lips, "happen to know anything about this, would you Kent?" The question was superfluous, and the Coach knew that before he had it said.
"I don't coach. So sorry, but I was just too busy peddling drugs and stealing toddlers for ritual sacrifice," He countered.
Before the Coach had time to say anything Brian was talking again.
"Don't be too hard on him coach. Living as a man all these years has got to have put a strain on his feminine mind."
It wasn't anything particularly new, him being picked on by Brian but he felt his jaw clench and grind involuntarily.
"Can't ruin his image. 'the badass'.... personally I think he may be overcompensating for something, but I couldn't say for sure, being naturally predisposed for an appreciation of the fairer sex."
More grinding of the teeth.
"Just do us all a favor and let him wander off wherever he wants. Probably doesn't have anything to offer in the way of sports talent. Wouldn't he be out there showing off if he did? I know i would. Well, do. I think, that as a man, Clarke you're just defective. Just so very..."
Unfortunately, author and reader alike would never know what Clarke Kent was so very, because it was at that moment that he hauled off and punched the other boy in his face.
"Whoopsy. I slipped," He shrugged.
Now you'd think that a swift, nose breaking punch would be enough to deter the person the recieving end of said punch to cease and desist whatever triggered it. But no dear children, here is where Brian declared, "See? He even punches like a girl," with blood driping from his nose.
Clarke broke. Faster than a blink of an eye, Clarke was on top of him; crushing his ribs with one punch, raining down blow after blow, three hits for everytime in the past that Clarke had wanted to hit him, he deserved to get hit, but the other had managed to restrain himself. It took two full minutes to pry Clarke off, but by that time his vicitms face was barely distinguishable from ground beef, and he looked as if he was barely hanging on.
A small crowd of people had gathered round them, gawking and whispering and throughly committed to being as unuseful as possible.
"Jesus, will someone call 911!" Coach McCormick screamed while containing Clarke. Someone got that oh so subtle hint and whipped out their cell phone. As soon as the man felt that his trophy boy was safe, he grabbed Clarke's arm and they were off, to whatever terrible fate awaited him in the prinicpal's office and then, more likely, the police station.